


for though the gods are mythic, the goddesses spin

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Gen, I want this man to rest, Spoilers -1710, i gave a name to patisserie lady bc i couldn't keep calling her that, references to death/assault, sibling angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:04:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: In the aftermath of tragedy, Esperanza struggles to balance his guilt and his gratitude.(Or the one where Esperanza gets mothered relentlessly by patisserie lady)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part one! Which I don't normally do but! I've been so stuck on writing lately, I wanted to get this out there to motivate myself to finish it. There's probably going to be one more chapter of about the same length.
> 
> There's nor reasoning behind my naming choice for patisserie lady at all. I just needed a name. Sorry.

The aristocracy traded its vivid reds and purples for the muted shades of mourning, but refused to concede its decadence; he swam through a sea of dark silks and billowing lace, faces powdered white as pearls and pearls coiled like snakes around necks and wrists. Nothing shimmered and nothing shined — all things dulled in these early stages of grief — but red-painted lips simpered, and the ladies and noblemen fluttered their new feathers proudly. _See how we mourn_ , said their high chins and drawn out posture, _we mourn_ beautifully.

He could not tell if they were songbirds or vultures, but they chirped idle chatter and stole his attention from the crows kicking up dirt at the open grave — and he needed their beauty to reassure him that beauty could exist at all. _His_ mourning must have been an ugly thing, stinging his eyes redder than any makeup could paint and leaving his face sallow and sunken.

_“My condolences for your loss, Count Boroñal.”_

He lost track of how many times these words were spoken to him; the noblemen ran together in his mind, their faces and words uninteresting, their sentiments forced, and poorly acted, at that — stiff posture, and thin frowns serving only to deepen his own. Moments before the ceremony began, Viscountess Camarena approached him with a lady of her house at her side, and when _she_ made the same statement he did his best to listen. The jewels on her fingers were too dark to catch sunlight, but her lament was polished, refined. Glimmering.

She was radiant, as all women were, and his heart surprised him when it fell instead of leaping to behold her, sorrow in her expression and an imitation of it in her voice.

“Her ladyship is welcome to continue to refer to me as _Essa.”_  He smiled, as earnestly as he could, which was not as earnestly as he _wished_ he could, and bowed his head. “I am not sure I am befitting of such an illustrious title — at least, not quite yet.”

Not _today_ , with the crowds to make him small, with the will of House Dormentaire to make him powerless, with the lies to make him disgraceful; not today, with the late Count Boroñal still to be buried beneath the earth. Not today — that title was not _his_. Perhaps tomorrow, when he settled into his grand, empty manor and looked out onto a new city. Perhaps in weeks, or months, when — _if_ he learned how to govern it. Perhaps never, and certainly not today.

“Of course, Essa.” She could not have known any part of this, but she nodded as though she did; a slow, pronounced nod, slender neck revealing all of itself in the tilt of her head and making him miss the sight in its lowering. She put a hand to her chest. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you. You’ll be in my prayers.”

“And there is nowhere I would rather _be_ than in the prayers of a lady such as yourself. Thank you. It truly lends me strength.” His voice was rich with bravado — not enough of it to convince himself, but enough to convince her. He was grateful to see her face brighten. He did not want the burden of his tragedy to be a dam sealing away her happiness, nor _any_ woman’s happiness. He watched the procession of pallbearers tread their path in the short grass, and thought to bear this burden in the same way: not with enthusiasm, but with strength. Coffins heavy with the dead looked, on their shoulders, to be filled with air.

Though, one of them may as well have been — filled with air.

Two servants carried a casket containing a girl who had his sister’s name and lacked her face, and back at his family’s estate a lone steward watched over a girl who had his sister’s face and lacked her name. One of them was dead, and the other did not seem herself convinced that she was alive — cold and still, quiet except when she was in misery. He paid his respects to the unknowable child who had been stolen in her place, he lamented the future she did not have with genuine heartache, but he did not know where to place his mourning for Maribel. Not in that coffin. Not at this funeral.

 _Not today_.

His gut churned to watch his parents lowered into the ground, yet he took solace in knowing where to find them. In the earth, or in some higher plane as described by the priest’s blessings; they would always exist, whether as angels or bare bones and soft soil. He knew where to direct his thoughts, his prayers, his sorrow.

He could find them. In the earth. In the dirt. In the soil. In the heavens.

He could only find Maribel in memory.

— And memory was not a place he could live. He did not stay long.

At the instruction of the Dormentaires, he left with haste following the funeral rite; long before the sun did, but _as_ the sun would, with no parting words, no goodbye, sinking silently and leaving the dazzling cosmos of high society to carry on without him.

They were to travel lightly to avoid drawing attention to themselves, and his soon-to-be _former_ servants had packed his effects that morning — while Maribel’s had been stored away with their parents' in crates to arrive at his new estate in _"a week, perhaps two"_ , which he understood to mean “ _when House Dormentaire had had its fill rifling through the Boroñal manor”_. Under the circumstances, he could not make an argument as to why the belongings of the recently deceased were as vital as his own.

"I will have new dresses tailored for you when we arrive," he assured, climbing into the carriage to sit across from her, "And when they are delivered I will return the remainder of your possessions to you. It's for the sake of discretion, Mari. Please understand," and _Monica_ stared through him, not understanding at all.

He spent the journey searching for words to speak, and finding none. Beside him and a hundred miles away, Monica offered only her pointed silence. Outside, Spain passed by at the pace of the dirge still sounding in his head. There was no crescendo, no great rise and fall, only the dull monotony of city fading into countryside, into cliffside, into seaside, into town. Past fading into memory, into dream, into lie.

Hooves and wheels shrieked to a halt, and the door was held open for them to step down onto the cobblestone street. He thanked the driver, the last of his father’s staff still at his beck and call, and the only one to be fully informed of the situation at hand. He was an unassuming, thoroughly uninteresting man, who he supposed — he supposed, glancing back at Monica, distant and quiet — may be the last familiar face he would see for a long while. He opened his mouth to dismiss him as he had the other servants, to tell him that he would see himself from here, but his words betrayed him and he thanked him instead. What difference would it make to keep a servant around? House Dormentaire be damned — and perhaps that was the heart of it. House Dormentaire be _damned_.

He let out a sigh, glancing over his shoulder. His sister, unmoving in her seat, took one look at the building in front of which they had stopped and muttered:

“It’s small.”

She wrapped her arms around herself in spite of the stifling heat, frowning a grave, thin-lipped frown that looked out of place on her youthful face. He furrowed his brow.

“People have made do with far less.”

“ _You_ don’t have to make do with less,” she retorted, voice serrated like a knife and flung at him with intent. “I’m sure _your_ new home has a hundred rooms.”

It could be true. In the whirlwind of their hushed exile, he had not thought to ask how many rooms the luxurious cage he was allotted would have to its name. It could be true, but it did not matter; whether it had one room or a hundred he would wish he could bring her with him, and whether it had one room or a hundred he could _not_.

He answered her with heavy silence and a long, empty stare, which Monica requited, until, in a sudden movement, she turned her head away.

“Essa, I don’t want to stay here,” she said at last, somewhat more childlike than she had been before. He thought he saw a flash of Maribel in the way she pushed stray strands of hair from her face, clumsy and unveiled. He thought he heard a note of Maribel in the way her voice sounded, the same as when she would complain about dull lessons and tedious tutors; stubborn, but as a girl her age ought to be. For a moment he thought that there was more of Maribel still in Monica than she was willing to show — and then he did not _think_ this, because he _knew_ it. It made his chest feel hollow to look at what he was tossing aside.

“I believe you will find it more agreeable than you may assume,” he said quietly.

“I won’t.”

She stood, furled her skirts up in tightly clenched fists, and climbed down to stand beside him. Her gaze fixed on the floor, and she repeated:

“I won’t,” — now with more force.

Force enough to knock any rebuke out of him.

There was reluctance in the stiffness of the footsteps that followed, slow thuds made far too audible by the drowsy quietude of the evening. In days to come passersby would think back on the night and recognize in hindsight that they were in the presence of their soon-to-be governor, but at the time no one stopped to comment on another pair of orphans in a city already home to far too many. They went on their way, invisible, their nobility forgotten for a spell; a spell which would fade all too soon for him, and _never_ for Monica.

 

* * *

 

A plump woman dressed in a soft, floral pattern greeted them at the door and introduced herself as _Annetta_ , the establishment’s owner. She glowed with a smile far brighter than the sky overhead, and ushered them into warmth and light with a gentle pat on either shoulder.

The patisserie smelled sweetly of the day’s baking; leftover cakes and tarts were laid out on trays on the countertop, appetising enough to remind him that in leaving so early he had missed the funeral repast, and every meal since. She led them through to the backroom, making friendly conversation. “ _How was your journey?”_ Too slow and too rushed at once, but he only answered, “ _It went well, thank you”_. Monica walked at his heels, but when they paused she remembered herself and gravitated away. She smiled at their host, shy but polite, but the corners of her lips dropped any time her head turned his direction. It was not ten minutes after their arrival that she scuffed her shoes against the floor and asked, in her well-mannered voice:

_“U-Um, excuse me, m’am, may I go to my room? I’m very tired.”_

He worried their host might take offence, but this worry subsided at her response. She gave a sympathetic nod, stood, and gestured for Monica to follow her. _“I prepared the upstairs for you. I hope that’s alright,”_ she told her as they disappeared through the door. He did not hear his sister’s response, but ventured that it was more amenable than it would have been had _he_ told her the same. He sighed.

He could not resent her treating him less than a stranger when the stranger was _kinder_.

He could not resent it — no, more than that, he was _grateful_. He needed Monica to take well to this place, to this caretaker — and he needed her to be willing to part with him. If she disliked him as much as she seemed to, that was a blessing. It made the situation more straightforward.

He was grateful.

He waited for the weight to lift off his shoulders. It only hung heavier.

He found a seat at the workbench, and, though his restless body did not settle easily into it, he told himself _wait_. Wait, and the relief will come. Wait, and one day this will prove to be the right decision.

“My apologies, Milord, she took some time getting to sleep.”

He was not sure how much time had passed before her return — many minutes, said her apologies, and very few, said his occupied mind.

“There’s no need for apologies,” he said, looking up. His smile was broad, but his stiffness betrayed his discomfort. “And please, call me ‘Esperanza’. ‘Essa’, if you so wish. My social standing is only a concern to the likes of men, you see, for all women are ranked far above me by grace of their natural regality.”

The crease of her laughter lines was soft by the candlelight, and the sound itself was hearty, filling every corner of the small room and willing the flames dance before her. “If that’s so, ‘Esperanza’ sounds just fine.”

“I wonder,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “What it is that deters people from ‘Essa’. I do hope that I do not come across as too grave a man for such a name — but setting that aside,” He lowered his gaze. “You said that she’s sleeping?”

“Like a log.” She nodded. He let out a slow breath.

“I am relieved to hear it. She…”

He scraped his fingernail against the wood, voice trailing off as he recalled her nightly sleeplessness — the terrible dreams she never described to him, but which he heard through the walls in the form of screams and sobs. No sound came from the upstairs now; he wondered whether she was asleep or only pretending to be, and he doubted whether either could last for long.

“Rest does not come easily to her,” he murmured, then fell silent, only the rustling of fabric as he dug into his coat pocket.

He dropped a small pouch onto the tabletop, its contents clanging metallically, sending her eyes wide with question. When he pushed it in her direction, she frowned, and _seeing_ her frown, he frowned himself.

“What’s this?”

“Your payment, Miss Annetta,” he answered, giving a nod.

“Pardon?”

He watched her forehead crease, and worry struck him as a pang in his stomach.

"It's not enough.” He swallowed and sat back in his chair. “I know. Forgive me. I do not yet have access to the full sum of my inheritance — there are... complications regarding the will left by the late Count Boroñal — but if you would allow me a week, I swear to you that the next installment will be twice what I give you now."

“No, no, that’s not it.”

He met her eyes and blinked slowly, soundless as he tried to determine where he had taken his misstep. He had been rude to decide the sum without settling it with her first, or it had been hasty to discuss money so soon, or —

“I won’t accept it,” she said simply. Her voice was curt, decisive.

“Miss —”

“I don’t want to profit off the poor girl’s tragedy, Esperanza.”

He stiffened.

“Of course not. I did not mean to imply…” He cleared his throat. “I only meant, Miss Annetta, that I owe you a great debt for your trouble. I know nothing of raising children, but I imagine it cannot be easy.”

 _It could not be easy_ — it _was_ not easy, just these past few days, ensuring her safety. Ensuring her future. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? Because he could not figure a way to look after Monica himself. Because he could not figure a way to fit her into his life. Because it was _not_ easy.

— But she shook her head.

“If she helps around the patisserie like any other apprentice, that’s more than enough on its own. I didn’t agree to this for the sake of gold.”

He nodded, only as an excuse to lower his head.

“That may be so, but I would still like to offer it. It’s the least I can do. Please, Miss Annetta, allow me to —” _Allow me to help_. He could not raise her himself. He could not take the place of a parent; he could not even keep his place as a _brother_. This was all the help he could offer: gold and silver, and polite words.

“She’s a child, my lord,” she cut in calmly, abruptly; she cut in as no one _would_ when speaking to an aristocrat, and her faint, understated defiance was a wonder to behold, “Who has recently lost a father. I don’t deserve a _reward_ for treating her decently, and I certainly won’t be taking one out of the hands of a young man still dressed in mourning for his family.”

Her words were ingenuous, but they threw him off balance. This was about Maribel — _Monica_. Not him. He cursed these dreary clothes. He should have changed before they set off; tradition said months, but he did not have months to mourn. He did not even have a full _funeral_ to mourn. He should have changed. He decided that he would, when he arrived at his manor. Something brighter. Something bolder. Something that did not inspire the pity that her expression drenched him in.

He found himself standing — hovering somewhere between the offence of having overstayed his welcome and the offence of not having been given a cue to leave.

“… I see,” he said at length. “I am very sorry to have presumed —”

She spared him his guilt, waving a hand dismissively.

“ _Hush_ , there’s no need.” A faint, sad smile spread across her face. “You meant well. Come, sit down.”

She walked around the table to pat his back, and, unsure of how else to respond, he lowered himself back into his seat. He felt a bit like a child in that moment — more than he had in years. He wondered if Monica would begin to feel a bit like a child again, too.

“It’s been a long day. You look very tired, Milord.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand, finding them sore to the touch, eyelashes damp with tears he did not recall crying. _Tired_. He supposed that was the kindest way to describe his bearings. He inhaled deeply.

“ _Essa_ ,” he mumbled, “It suits me better, I think — than _Milord_.”

“Pardon me, Essa,” she corrected herself. “Would you like some tea?”

He removed his hand from his face and looked up at her, furrowing his brow. “I would not want to trouble a woman with such a thing during her free time. On the contrary, I should be asking if _you_ would like anything. Forgive me.”

There was humour in her smile again, and when he made to stand she shook her head. “Then it’s a good thing it’s no trouble at all, isn’t it?” she laughed. “You sit put, Esperanza. It will take no time.”

“Thank you,” he said, watching her walk into the kitchen. “From the bottom of my heart.”

She returned in no more than ten minutes with two cups of tea and a plate of cherry beignets — _“I don’t suppose you had the time for a proper meal today,”_ she smiled, and he shook his head. They were still warm to bite into, freshly baked in anticipation of their arrival, and they were as good as anything his family’s cooks could bake. He ate only one, cautious of the nausea that threatened him, but it settled his stomach more than upsetting it. She told him, _“I’ll bring the rest up to Monica in case she wakes up hungry,”_ ; the weight on his shoulders never lifted fully, but felt lighter with every gesture, every word she spoke.

The events of the past week were frost over the season's fair weather, cold so all-consuming that he could not stop to think what emotions it froze — _get through today_ , had been his mantra the night it transpired and every night since, _get Maribel through today._ He had treated the symptoms, tackled the frostbite; he did not think he could fight the overwhelming winter, not while there was a funeral to plan, inheritence to settle, deals to be made, promises to be upheld, lies to be agreed upon, a new life to build, and — _Monica_. He suffered sleeplessness as much as she did, bouts of anger, and a hollowness in his chest. He had braced himself for weeping, but weeping had not come, tearducts frozen over by duty, too _busy_ to weep, too cold. So _cold_.

But _everything_ about this place was warm. The candlelight, the pastries, her voice, her face. He tasted the summer in the late spring air, and it melted his sorrow into tears. She handed him a handkerchief. He thanked her, and she waved it off, but he thanked her again, and again, and again. He thanked her until his words were lost to the soreness of his throat, and she sat with him until they returned.

“I apologise, Miss, for being so… improper.”

She laid a hand on his arm in what felt like divine forgiveness.

“There’s nothing improper about it,” she assured, and since she was a woman — he accepted it as truth.

Two hours passed before he excused himself.

“It has been a pleasure to meet you,” he said in earnest, and parted with a promise that he would write in a week’s time to check on Monica. She saw him off with the promise that he was always welcome. He marvelled at what that might feel like — to be always welcome _anywhere_ , after being spurned by his motherland. He supposed that it felt like having a home — that this place could be a _home_ — and he thought he almost envied Monica as he turned, and waved farewell, and set off for an empty, lifeless manor.

 _You don’t have to make do with less_.

Monica was right to be bitter, he knew. She was right to resent being left here.

Still, he let himself wonder, briefly, if he would not prefer to be left here _with her_.

 

* * *

“You were longer than I expected, Milord. Was there trouble?”

“I do not appreciate a man prying into my business. Never waste my time asking pointless questions again.”

He sighed and hauled himself into the carriage, sparing not a glance at his bewildered steward.

“Sorry, Milord. How did you find Lady Maribel’s new caretaker?”

“Yet more questions. Why do men find it so challenging to follow simple instructions?”

He shut the door himself with a purposeful thud, but his voice was audible through the glass of the window.

“In any case, she is a lovely woman.”

“You say _all_ women are lovely women, Milord.”

Sitting back in his seat, he nodded.

“That’s because all women _are_ lovely women.” He smiled to himself. “Why would I ever say otherwise?”


	2. Chapter 2

**1706**

It was summer, and the garden blossomed with flowers and noise; the sort of noise which rang to him like a choir of angels — fragmented verses passed between his maids as they flitted in and out of the manor, praising the sunlight and the fair weather. He paused his swift footsteps to make note that they were _"fairer than the weather by far"_ , and his steward, three steps behind him, stiffened in place.

"Milord," his voice was lost to the tangling weeds of conversation. He sighed and repeated, "Milord, is this truly the best time?"

One of the women laughed, and Esperanza tipped his head back, eyes closed, appreciative as though the sound were music. _There is no finer instrument than a woman's voice_ , he could almost hear him say, and he could not tell whether this was a memory or an imagining.

Esperanza did not answer him until the maids had went on their way, brushing past the steward without so much as a glance and whispering between themselves.

"An absurd question," he asserted, voice now a bored drawl. "It is _always_ the best time to visit a woman."

"Of course, Milord." The _clack_ of his heels against the stone floor resumed. "It's only that supper is nearly ready."

"I shall take it when we return."

"It will be cold, Milord, and —"

"And?" he parroted. " _And?_ What should it matter? The knowledge that it was prepared by such beautiful hands shall warm my heart regardless of the temperature of the food. Do you disagree?"

He spun abruptly to face him, anger in the deep furrow of his brow.

"Do you belittle the hard work of my kitchen staff? Do you suggest that the meal they serve shall be rendered unsatisfactory merely because _we_ are late to eat it? Would you blame women for the transgressions of man?"

Few things blared as harshly as his accusation when it was directed at full force; the steward felt sweat bead at his forehead, and not from the heat of the sun. He tugged at his collar, turned his head down, and replied with rushed words:

"N-Not at all, Milord. I am sure that it will be delicious, cold or not —"

"Good answer." Esperanza nodded, expression calming within an instant — not to the soft smile he showed his maids, but to the straight-faced indifference to which he was accustomed. "Then let us away."

He turned, walked, regarded the roses with a hum of approval, and did not regard the steward at all. Taking refuge in the shade of his disinterest, the steward followed.

* * *

"I apologise for bringing this man into your home, Miss Annetta."

His coat was draped over the empty seat between himself and the steward; he lacked the audacity to sit beside a woman, but still did not deign to sit beside a man. Annetta gave him a strange look from across the table, brow knitted though the curve of her mouth was kind.

"That's nothing to apologise for," she said simply. "Your friend is welcome here, Esperanza."

"Oh." His tone dropped and his nose crinkled. "He is not a friend. But thank you, all the same, for your hospitality," — his eyes slit at the steward — "Thank the wonderful woman for her hospitality."

"It's nothing to thank me for."

"She said it's nothing to thank her for, Milord," said the steward in a quiet voice, head turned to him.

"Then thank her for not requiring you to thank her. What an admirable demonstration of humility, to allow such an unworthy man into her home and not ask for so much as a _thank you,_ " he paused only to breathe. "Thank her."

"I would hardly call him _unworthy_ , Esperanza," she laughed. "All sorts come by here. I do run a patisserie, not a _palace._ "

"Ah, but any place touched by womankind is a palace in spirit," he closed his eyes, smiling serenely, then spoke, "Give her thanks for her generosity."

A brief silence ensued as he waited for this gratitude to be properly expressed. He waited, and then after a brief moment he opened his eyes to glower, and then he did not have to wait any longer.

"Thank you." The steward bowed his head.

"Is that all you are going to say? _Thank you_? Is that all?" He inhaled sharply through his nose. "I grant you it’s a _start_ , but after all that she has done —?"

"That's enough, Esperanza. The poor man looks like he might faint."

He did not care to notice until she pointed it out, but his face _had_ paled by several tones. She reached over to push the plate of scones towards him.

"What's your name, dear?"

The steward took one with a nod, opening his mouth to speak.

"Unimportant," Esperanza assured with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Feel free to forget that he is here."

"Now, how can I do that when he's right in front of me?"

He tilted his head, perplexed.

"Hm? It's simple, really. He does not speak _too much_ , so all you must do is… not look at him. I will admit he _breathes_ loudly at times. That can be more of an effort to overlook." He frowned to himself, then shot a glance his way, and, without missing a beat, "Apologise for breathing."

"There's no need for that," she said, shaking her head. The steward let out a breath of relief, and she changed the subject before he could be victim of any critique for the manner of it.

"Have you spoken to Monica recently?"

 _Only if one has a very liberal definition of_ spoken _, and_ Monica _, and_ recently, Esperanza thought. The letters had stopped coming sooner than they had started; in the past four years he had received only two unprompted, and one was sent expressly to ask — demand — that he cease sending anything _to_ prompt her response in future.

 _And stop addressing your letters to 'Maribel'. Dead girls cannot read_ , it had closed, bitter and blunt as he had never known Maribel to be — and convincing, in that way, of the fact that _she_ had not written it. His pen refused to form the word _'Monica'_ , and the gap between them grew.

"No," he answered shortly.

"She seems to have a crush." She smiled, as though there was something in this news to smile _about_.

"On a man?"

"A _boy_ , Esperanza.“ The tone of her voice seemed convinced there was a distinction between these things, _man_ and _boy_. He was convinced otherwise.

"How troubling," he said with a frown. "I had hoped she would stay away from them."

"He seems like a polite boy."

" _Polite_ has nothing to do with _good_ , Miss Annetta. I have known many gentlemen capable of wickedness." Many more than he _wished_ he had; wicked men with faces like amiable aristocrats or trustworthy townspeople. Wicked men who did not seem wicked at all, who tore through girls and women like Monica with smiles that did not look sharp before the glimpse of white teeth.

Perhaps he would have felt more assured if he did _not_ seem to be a polite boy; perhaps he could have better stomached this news if it was a boy like Elmer, a boy who could never be described as _polite_ , but who could at least be described _honestly_. An assessment of manners alone did _not_ help him stomach it; it only made the flavour of the concern more unpleasant.

"Well, he makes her happy. You can't ask for much more." She leaned back in her seat, folding her hands in front of her.

"I can and _will_ ask for more, but not from you, Miss," he sighed. There was a stiffness in his shoulders, in his silence, then in his words, "She is... _happy_ , then?"

"Not every moment of the day." Her round face softened with her voice, "But yes, Esperanza, she's happy."

He fell silent — not angered, nor saddened, nor relieved. Only silent. From the corner of his eye he watched bread crumbs fall onto the tabletop, and he did not comment that the steward's manners were a thing of shame, though the comment hung at the fringe of his mind. He did not say anything at all.

"Is something wrong?" she asked at length, a small frown at her lips.

"I am trying to imagine Monica _happy_ ," he answered, voice weak.

Happiness. It did not sound _realistic_. _Monica_ happy. It did not fit. _Maribel_ happy, he could imagine; Maribel who once had hair like sunlight. Maribel had known how to _be_ happy, how to smile, but _Monica_? Monica who parted with him sullen and hollow, who greeted him with disdain, who wrote to him with bitter resentment — when had she learned happiness, and who had taught her?

"You can see it for yourself," she said. "She finishes lessons soon."

"Ah..." His throat ran dry. "I should be on my way. There is supper waiting for me at home, and I would hate to make my maids wait. As long as Monica and yourself are well —"

"She might want to see you."

"I must be going."

"I don't think she hates you, Esperanza."

He stood.

"Then she is a tremendous actress."

"You _are_ her brother."

He paused, fingers tightening on the fabric of his coat.

"Half-brother," he corrected — though it was _not_ correct, or perhaps it was. He was not sure himself, sometimes. "I am not in the business of upsetting women, family or otherwise."

He cleared his throat with a cough, prompting his steward to get to his feet. He did so, brushing crumbs from his shirt and thanking her for her time — earning a nod of approval from Esperanza. She only smiled sadly.

"You don't see eye-to-eye, that's all."

"No, we do not — and I have given up on thinking that we ever _shall_."

There was silence as he collected himself, remedying the unpleasant emotion written onto his face with a slow breath.

"You are a wonderful woman, Miss Annetta. To argue with you is the last thing I would wish." He gave a polite smile. "And since we cannot agree on this matter, I would prefer not to speak of it. I apologise if that is rude of me."

"It's not rude," but she let out a sigh as she stood, furrowing her brow in a way that said it was some _other_ sort of worrisome. _Not rude_ , no, but his smile felt thin, knowing that she was troubled, all the same — disappointed, perhaps. He did his best to figure a way to ease this disappointment, but left without having found one.

* * *

As Esperanza rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, a conversation erupted outside the building.

"Elmer, you don't have to pretend you didn't see him."

The boy was ducked in the shade of an alleyway, hand pulled tight to his chest as though if he did not physically restrain it it might spring up into a wave any moment. His mouth, too, was forcefully closed, lips pulled into an uncharacteristically tight smile.

"Huh? Who?" he asked, eyebrows arched in a poor attempt at confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about, Monimoni."

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and Monica pursed her lips.

"My — the governor," she hissed, pulling him out onto the street by his collar. "I already know you're friends with him. You don't have to ignore him for my sake."

Elmer tilted his head. "I wasn't —"

"You _were_ ," observed Huey.

"See, Huey noticed, too!" she huffed, then turned to look at him. With a lilt in her voice that had not been there before, she said, "Th-Thanks, Huey."

He lifted his shoulders into a shrug. "Why are you thanking me for that?"

She mumbled something too softly for either of them to hear, and Elmer stretched his arms out behind his head, breathing in deeply.

"Huh, so you don't smile if I talk to him but you don't smile if I ignore him, either," he mused, sounding far more thoughtful than he ever _was_. "Alright, Monimoni, what do I have to do to cheer you up?"

She shot him a glare, but Huey cut in before she could respond:

"Why _do_ you hate him so much?" he asked, one eyebrow quirked just slightly — a rare modicum of interest. "He looks like a fool, but..."

"He _is_ a fool," she answered immediately, tone far harsher than she intended. She lowered her head, stammer returning, "B-But, um, I don't _hate_ him."

"Great! That means you can smile next time you see him, right? Right?" Elmer pressed, volume increasing by the word.

For a moment she seemed on the verge of anger again, but she let go her grip on his collar and frowned.

"Not until _he_ stops hating _me_."

* * *

**1709**

"Are you worried?"

"No."

She was spectral, swathed in her cloak, dark as the night around her — but though her hood hung low over her head, her mask was nowhere to be seen. Her face showed emotion in fleeting rays of moonlight, and was gone with shrouds of dark clouds. This was the sort of occasion their meetings were; not an occasion for Monica, nor an occasion for the Mask Maker. Not an occasion for Maribel, or the person who took her life.

An occasion for shadows. An occasion for spectres. An occasion for _not quite_ s, and eerie likenesses. An occasion for glimpsing his sister (What was it? Monica _happy?_ Or was it Monica _scared?_ Was it Monica who rejoiced in her freedom or Monica who scorned her loss? Was it Monica fearing for her life? Or was it Monica accepting her demise?) so briefly that it might have been a trick of the light, swallowed by blackness with the shifting of the winds (Was it Monica? Was it _ever_ Monica at all?). An occasion for tiptoeing the boundary between the _here_ and the _departed_ , but she was not dead so much as _death_.

(She was not _Maribel_. That was the detail that mattered.)

"You do not have to be worried," he said, and searched in the dark for proof that she _was_.

"I'm not," came her short reply. She was unfamiliar now, but for those flashes of light that betrayed her parentage. She was unfamiliar, or unbearably familiar. What illuminated next was a frown. "It's not as if you would care either way."

He inhaled. The air fell heavy like a stone in his lungs, and the next breath was stifled.

"Of course I would — I care, Maribel."

"I'm sure you're glad they're here."

"If they had not sent a woman I would have —" He felt his fists tighten at his sides.

"But because they sent a woman you _didn't._ " She did not move. "I'm not surprised. I know by now that all other women come before me."

"That is not what I meant."

"Spare me some warning before you turn me over to them." She did not move, but she became more solid; shadows became cloth, and cloth rustled with the shaking of the body beneath. "Allow me the courtesy of being prepared to be thrown away _this time_."

"Why do you think I would do such a thing?" His voice must have risen. He realized only in the comparison that _hers_ must have, too.

"Because you hate me," she answered, words strong with something that was almost anger and was entirely _finality_.

"Maribel —"

"You blame me for their deaths just as much as _they_ do. You've always been on their side, never mine," she spoke steadily — loudly, but steadily, with calm, white rage — as though this betrayal had settled over her so long ago that it was merely fact, impersonal and terrible as most facts were. "And who can blame you, when Monica's so _detestable_? Too awful to keep your precious family name, too awful to be your sister —"

"Maribel," he said, slowly. "I do not — I have never hated you."

"Then you're a very good actor," she snapped, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. Her glare was cold as steel, and he turned his back from its sharp edge.

"I never _could_ hate you." He shook his head. "Not for that, most of all."

He watched the last small lights of the city below die out one by one, leaving the night a bit emptier, each one, than it had been before it left.

"I was the one who did not act quickly enough. I was the one who did not save them. I was the one who did not save _you_ ," he said, fingers clenching at the balcony railing, then easing in a way that was closer to resignation than calm. "I cannot blame _you_ for not being saved, Maribel."

There was a silence.

"... Monica."

"Excuse me?"

"If you're going to speak to me, at least call me _Monica_ ," She had moved to stand beside him, now sounding more weary than anything. "That's what people have been calling me for nine years now, Esperanza. At some point it has to become who I _am_."

He smiled, bitterly.

"I am afraid I do not know Monica too well."

She let out a slow breath, pushing her hood back.

"I think you're angry with her," she murmured. "She lives while your family dies, even though she's a bastard and a murderer," — she frowned — "And she gets to wear your better sister's face, and smile her smile, and… she doesn't deserve it."

He considered, for a moment, then shook his head.

"I am not," he said, "Angry."

He had never seen her wear Maribel's smile. He did not think he could resent it if he ever did.

"Then you're annoyed with her," she persisted, "Because she doesn't listen. She ignores your letters. She ignores your advice. She ignores _you_ — and you ignore her, so she ignores you _more_. Everything she does annoys you. She has fallen in love with a man, and knows that you believe she's foolish to go the lengths she does for him —"

"Men are beasts," he muttered. "It does not matter how handsome or polite they are once they bare their teeth."

"I know that." A nod. "I don't _forget_ that. The man Monica loves never stops baring his teeth," — her voice softened — "He says he wants the whole world to burn — our city, our country, Elmer, me, even himself. He seems to think he means it, and I don't mind if he does. He doesn't lie about it. I know exactly what to expect from him — and I love him."

"Then that's even worse — tempting fate by chasing after a monster after you've seen his claws."

"I think you forget, brother, that I am not without my own teeth and claws."

He looked down, to her wrist, to the faint outline of something sheathed beneath her sleeve; he recalled four years prior and the bodies in the streets, and struggled to connect what he knew was true with what he thought ought to be.

But she had _always_ had a way to bite back when threatened, hadn't she? _I was the one who did not save you_ , because the only person who came close to saving Maribel was _herself_.

Inaction was a luxury she had never had.

"I know that you don't care about men, but he's beautiful, Esperanza. He really is — and no more a monster than I am."

She smiled in that moment.

— And he sighed, because this meant the argument was lost, but could not help smiling in return, because this meant the argument was _over_.

"I take it," he spoke, dryly, but with some manner of relief. "That means you are _not_ worried? Not at all? Not about any of this?"

"I'm worried," she smiled, and her lower lip trembled. "I'm terrified, to be honest, of losing it all — but I don't need _protecting_. Not from House Dormentaire, not from my past, not from Huey, not from myself. Not from my love."

She breathed in audibly. He wondered if it felt like there were stones in her lungs, too.

"If you could _accept_ me with all that energy you use trying to protect me." She straightened, and though she was shorter than him she seemed to stand taller. "Maybe then you would know Monica _better_."

* * *

**1710**

The room told stories he had never heard of a woman he should have known better. _Still_ could _know better_ , he tried to tell himself, but it already felt like a lie.

The room was a story about indecision. Books which held recipes and books which held scientific formulae, objects he could not identify and objects he _could_ — diaries and jewelry, instruments he was not sure she had ever played and instruments he could almost _hear_ her play, family heirlooms tucked away gathering dust; nothing in this space was in harmony. It did not come together to form Monica. There were flowers on the windowsill which looked to be wilting, and a journal open to the most recent entry, a year old. Nothing in this space knew what it was doing there, or why.

Neither had she.

Neither _did_ she, he corrected himself — but it already felt incorrect.

"She hasn't been home at all?"

"I thought that she and Huey — but then he came to ask about her as well."

"I wish that were it," he said, turning through the pages of a book on her desk without looking at them. "If she eloped with a man, I could blame the man in question, but..."

He shook his head and sighed.

"Whatever she's done, I hope you don't hold it against her," Annetta said, soft but firm. "She's young. We must be forgiven for foolish decisions at that age."

She laughed in an attempt to improve his humour. He stilled.

"I do not hold it against her."

How _could_ he? He thought back to the week before, to her parting words — how could he blame her when he had done nothing to stop her? He had known then that something was amiss, but as always he was too slow to react. Too slow to rescue her, too slow to put out the fire, too slow to stop her slipping into the hands of the Dormentaires once again.

He could have fought back against them. This was his city. His city, and his _family_ in the line of fire, and he should have — if he was strong he _would_ have —

"I failed her," he said, throat aching. It was not a revelation. He had always known; he had failed Maribel, he had failed every woman and girl who suffered in Lotto Valentino, and now he failed Monica, too. It was not a _revelation_ ; it was a reprise.

"Now, I doubt Monica would agree. She told me she wanted to speak to you before she went — wherever she went." Her tone intended to sooth, a comforting hand laid on his shoulder. His stomach twisted.

"She _did_ speak to me."

"Then you _know_ she isn't angry with you."

Isn't. _Wasn't_. Hadn’t been. It felt past tense — Maribel, Monica, her life and everything she was; it felt ancient and gone. It felt like it was lost years and years ago, and yet the loss was fresh in his mind. _I've come to say goodbye_. Perhaps she was not angry.

But he was — angry, for all the years that he had made her so. For all the hatred he had earned. For all the ways he could have saved her and all the ways he did not.

"You're a good man, Esperanza. She knows that."

"I do not believe that there is such a thing," — he shut the book — "As a _good_ man."

The contempt in his voice was for himself. He started at her reply:

"What about your father? You don’t think _he_ was a good man?"

She had not known his father, but she must have thought to make a point — _he was good so you are good, too_ , or _he was not, and that is why you think you are not_. It was not a question which required much deliberation. It was not a question which _made_ much of a point. His father had not been a bad man. He was just a _dead_ one.

"I..." He paused, frowning. "He _was_ a good man, but what good did that _do_? His goodness did not help him. It did not enable him to help my mother, or my sister."

She fell silent. It was a gentle silence, but it made him stiffen.

"And _my_... goodness," — he said the word as though it were a curse on a child's tongue, low and sharp, murmured but purposeful — "does not help anyone either. I wish I could be like you, Miss Annetta," he found himself saying, "Someone who _does_ good rather than merely _being_ it. A hero… But there is some other quality which must be combined with goodness to create heroism. I believe —"

"You don't need to be a hero, dear," she told him. A hand squeezed his shoulder. He felt far away but for that touch, one foot in his memories and the other in his thoughts.

It was true, he supposed. He did not _need_ to be a hero. This was not a city that _demanded_ heroism. Here one could be a coward freely; one need only bow to the powers that be — to drugs or masked murderers or House Dormentaire — and the powers that be would bestow the gift of complacency, taking only that which no one looked for in the first place: nameless children and faceless criminals.

This was not a city that _rewarded_ heroism.

He turned his head to look at the woman beside him — a woman who demonstrated all the boldness and bravery that kindness in a tide of cruelty required — and noted how her face had changed in these ten years, tired and wrinkled. She had not been spared the worst of the world in being herself the better.

He did not need to be a hero. He was not sure he _could_ be.

"But someone must be," he said. "Someone _should_ be."

And _she_ had taken that burden upon her shoulders more than enough.

* * *

No one was, in the end — a hero.

Maribel was dead.

The ache felt ancient and the wound looked fresh. It was not a revelation. It was a reprise.

It was a reprise; across the city, the sound of the dirge, and the casket light as air, and an unknowable woman he could not mourn, and his sister lost somewhere he could not place.

Maribel was twice dead and never buried; he wondered whether the afterlife could find her body in the vastness of the sea. He decided he did not want to wonder. He watched the waves from his windowsill and they washed these questions away, off onto some other shore he had yet to reach.

"The Dormentaires say they did not sanction her execution," he muttered, "Though I cannot help thinking that they _celebrate_ it."

 _One smudge on their reputation finally scrubbed clean away_ , he did not say. His jaw was too stiff for speaking harsh truths.

"Esperanza," she said. She did not say _my condolences_. She did not smile with false sympathy. She frowned, and her face was a mirror for his heart. "It won't help you to think about such things."

The print of her dress was simple, and the colours were dark. Her mourning was bare-faced and honest; his was a star beneath either eye and a band of black hidden beneath a sleeve too bright. Not enough for the death of a sister, and too much for the death of a criminal. All wrong.

"Thank you." His words returned, quiet and understated. _All wrong_. "No, perhaps that is not... quite enough."

 _Thank you_ did not seem to hold the weight of his gratitude. His mind searched for a better means of conveying it while his eyes searched the too-clear sky, and she sat beside him without asking if she could. He almost thanked her for this alone.

"Are you sure you won't attend the service?"

"I cannot." He shook his head. Too many things stood in the way; secrets and politics and Dormentaire guards. “One of my maids is going in my place. That reminds me, I must show her my appreciation. Would flowers be appropriate? I would not want to undervalue the kindness she has done me and Ma… Monica. Women truly are a blessing, are they not? I do not know what I would do without —”

“Esperanza.”

His voice had grown more strained as he prattled; she spared him the _break_.

“I’m sure flowers would be wonderful.”

“If such a wonderful woman thinks so, I trust that they will suffice.”

His eyes were heavy — shadowy as they always were, but heavier. He closed them.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

"You don't have to thank me, dear."

When he opened his eyes, her brow was furrowed. He turned his head away.

" _Of course_ I must thank you.”

The smile at his lips was faint but sincere.

“It would be a terrible crime to overlook a woman’s good deeds. They must be acknowledged — no, more than that. They must be revered — celebrated,” his voice raised with vigor than dropped off abruptly. He turned his chin down. “So please forgive me that I am not in a state for celebrating. If my heart were not so grieved it would burst open with gratitude.”

He tapped against the window, filling the silence with slow, small _thuds_.

"She was happy, wasn't she?” he asked at length. “Not every day of her life, but — she was happy."

He saw her nod from the corner of his eye, and he swallowed.

"I do not think she ever could have been happy again if she had not had the life you gave her.”

He imagined a Monica who had stayed hidden in a distant room of his manor, lonesome and sheltered, without hope for a normal life. He imagined a Monica who had been left in some less caring hands — the Dormentaires, or the city’s aristocrats, or the workshops. He imagined a Monica who had never relearned her own smile. He imagined a Monica who lived longer but not _better_. He let out a long, staggered breath.

"You did everything for her… Everything I could not. I — There are no words," he mumbled, “To express how deeply I am indebted to you.”

She shook her head, turning her focus to the other side of the window, meeting his gaze where it landed rather than trying to meet his eyes.

“Your sister was a delight to have around. Such a sweet young woman, and a hard worker… It was too quiet before she came here, and now it’s too quiet without her.” A sad smile wreathed her face. “Nevermind _debt_. It was an honour to be given the chance to know her.”

* * *

**1711**

Given time, sorrow became something less poignant; the ache of loss never left — he knew this from the first time — but the dagger was removed and the stabbing pain was replaced with the sting of raw flesh exposed to open air. Uncauterised, unbandaged, unstitched; the wound festered and it bled, at times so infected that even the healing presence of his maids could not mitigate the pain of it, but the blade could not drive any deeper, and carved out — hollow — replaced _run through_. Exhausted replaced anguished.

The air in the city was still stale, but he learned to breathe it. Sometimes he thought he must be empty, to let his lungs fill themselves with air like this; to let himself accept a reality so unpleasant. Sometimes he wished he could hold his breath until the world looked cleaner, clearer, kinder — but he learned how to breathe, here and now. Stale and unpleasant. He let it move through him, as he always had.

That did not mean he did not wish for something cleaner, clearer, kinder. It did not mean he did not seek to give this much to others.

“My name is Esperanza. If you would like, you can call me ‘Essa’,” he said when the hurried scrambling of the fleeing delinquents faded into the noise of the marketplace.

It was always the same story: wicked men and faceless women and bystanders too trapped in their cowardice to care. She was perhaps twelve, blanched and waif-like, with a fearful energy which he knew to mean ‘ _allow for a respectable distance’_. It was always the same energy. The same fears. He understood, and so he remained a metre’s length from her, never once offering his hand. He offered a smile, earnest and gentle. It was always the same smile. It was the only thing that did not tire with time.

“I am truly sorry that you had to bear witness to my anger towards those… villains. It boiled my blood to see how they treated you, but that is no excuse for my unseemly reaction.” He bowed his head, apologetic. “I hope it did not frighten you. I can promise you that none of it was, or ever will be, directed at you — nor any woman, for that matter.”

Her chin dipped in a small nod.

“May I ask your name, Miss?”

Silence.

“Would you like me to escort you to your home?”

Her head shook slowly.

“I don’t have one,” she murmured.

His expression was unchanged. He knew this story, after all — like the back of his hand. Somewhere down the line, the tragedy stopped coming in the form of a shock. His city’s rot and treachery haunted him daily, but it did not stop his heart as it used to. It was not that he did not feel it. It was that, rather than a stab, it was a thousand pinpricks.

“I see.”

He straightened, then turned.

“Please, follow me — only if you wish to, of course. I would not think of forcing you,” he clarified. “I would like to help, if you would allow me to.”

There was silence behind him for a long moment, then small footsteps.

It was always the same story, but each heroine was new.

 

* * *

 

Like the air in the streets would always be stale, the air here would always be sweet. His lungs welcomed the change with a slow breath, taking in the scent of cinnamon and apple and crisping pastry.

The interior of the patisserie was warm and light, as it had been the very first time he stepped foot inside; the night had been dark then, but it was never dark here. Now there was sunlight in the place of candlelight, and filtered through these windows it looked brighter still than the day outside.

Annetta demanded no explanations when she saw them. She dusted her hands off on her apron, leaving a smear of flour, and beckoned them over.

“She is…” he began. She gave a knowing nod, and he trailed off.

She asked the girl’s name. She answered in a small voice, but she answered; her nervous energy was not quite so nervous in her presence. It did not surprise Esperanza, nor did it bother him. Were he in her shoes, he would have chosen to trust a woman over a man — no, even in his _own_ shoes.

He kept his respectable distance as she ushered the girl into a seat, offering her food and drink. She took only two sips of tea and a bite of a croissant before her appetite failed her, but it brought some colour to her face.

“I thought it would be better to bring her here than to the manor. My female guests are not received with the kindest rumours, and she is far too young to be the subject of such things,” he said when Annetta came to stand beside him. “But if it is trouble, I will happily find elsewhere for her to stay. It’s only that…”

It was only that he did not trust _elsewhere_ as he trusted _here_.

“Don’t be silly. There’s no use having a spare room if no one stays in it,” she laughed brightly, then turned her chin up to look at him. “You seem a bit better than when we last met.”

He made a faint hum, tilting his head back.

“I suppose it is my duty to be better.”

She quirked an eyebrow. He gave a faint smile.

“I made an… agreement of sorts with Elmer not long ago. He asked that I do what I can to make the people of this city happy.”

His eyes found the girl, now asleep at the table with her head resting in her arms. She looked small and fragile and strong. She looked exhausted. Her narrow shoulders rose and fell. She looked _alive_.

He did not think she would be smiling when she awoke, but perhaps in days. Weeks. Months. Perhaps she could remember how to smile.

Or perhaps she could _learn_.

“I cannot do that if I spend the rest of my days grieving for things it is beyond my power to change,” he concluded with finality, then, after a moment of silence, mumbled softly, "Truth be told, I still do not understand why I outlived them. They were not sinners. — I do not believe the world is better without them."

"Of course it isn't.” She shook her head. “But we must make do with what the world _is_."

“Yes, that is exactly it.”

His expression softened.

“We must make do with what the world is, until it is within our means to change it.”

It was always the same story, but there had to be an ending out there that was not swallowed by flame.


End file.
